Clare Poems

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-3-7364-1622-2
Verlag: anboco
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 178 Seiten

A Spring Morning A World for Love Address to Plenty Approach of Spring, The Autumn Autumn Robin, The Ballad Crab Tree, The Decay December Effusion Gipsy Camp, The Graves of Infants Harvest Morning, The Home Yearnings I am! Yet what I am June Love Love Lives beyond the Tomb Meeting, The Milton, To John My Early Home My Love, thou art a Nosegay Sweet Nightingale's Nest, The Noon Pastoral Fancies Patty Patty of the Vale Old Poesy On an Infant's Grave Rural Evening Rustic Fishing Song Song Summer Evening Summer Images Tell-Tale Flowers, The Thoughts in a Churchyard 'Tis Spring, my Love, 'Tis Spring To an April Daisy To P * * * * To the Clouds To the Rural Muse Universal Epitaph, The Vanities of Life, The What is Life? Winter Woodman, The

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clare, John

Leseproben

WHAT IS LIFE?

AND what is Life?—An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,

A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.—

Its length?—A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.

And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What is vain Hope?—The puffing gale of morn,

That robs each flow’ret of its gem,—and dies;

A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

—And thou, O Trouble?—nothing can suppose

(And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows),

What need requireth thee:

So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,

Some necessary cause must surely be.

But disappointments, pains, and every woe

Devoted wretches feel,

The universal plagues of life below,

Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal.

And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?

That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—

A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.

And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—

No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life?—When stripp’d of its disguise,

A thing to be desir’d it cannot be;

Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

’Tis but a trial all must undergo;

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize

That happiness vain man’s denied to know,

Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.

ADDRESS TO PLENTY

IN WINTER

O THOU Bliss! to riches known,

Stranger to the poor alone;

Giving most where none’s requir’d,

Leaving none where most’s desir’d;

Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps

Adding to his useless heaps

Gifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,

Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:

While poor, shatter’d Poverty,

To advantage seen in me,

With his rags, his wants, and pain,

Waking pity but in vain,

Bowing, cringing at thy side,

Begs his mite, and is denied.

O, thou blessing! let not me

Tell, as vain, my wants to thee;

Thou, by name of Plenty stil’d

Fortune’s heir, her favourite child.

’Tis a maxim—hunger feed,

Give the needy when they need;

He, whom all profess to serve,

The same maxim did observe:

Their obedience here, how well,

Modern times will plainly tell.

Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,

Not without occasion told:

Hear one wish; nor fail to give;

Use me well, and bid me live.

’Tis not great, what I solicit:

Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:

Now the cutting Winter’s come,

’Tis but just to find a home,

In some shelter, dry and warm,

That will shield me from the storm.

Toiling in the naked fields,

Where no bush a shelter yields,

Needy Labour dithering stands,

Beats and blows his numbing hands;

And upon the crumping snows

Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.

Leaves are fled, that once had power

To resist a summer shower;

And the wind so piercing blows,

Winnowing small the drifting snows,

The summer shade of loaded bough

Would vainly boast a shelter now:

Piercing snows so searching fall,

They sift a passage through them all.

Though all’s vain to keep him warm,

Poverty must brave the storm.

Friendship none, its aid to lend:

Health alone his only friend;

Granting leave to live in pain,

Giving strength to toil in vain;

To be, while winter’s horrors last,

The sport of every pelting blast.

Oh, sad sons of Poverty!

Victims doom’d to misery;

Who can paint what pain prevails

O’er that heart which Want assails?

Modest Shame the pain conceals:

No one knows, but he who feels.

O thou charm which Plenty crowns:

Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:

Cast around a pitying eye!

Feed the hungry, ere they die.

Think, oh! think upon the poor,

Nor against them shut thy door:

Freely let thy bounty flow,

On the sons of Want and Woe.

Hills and dales no more are seen

In their dress of pleasing green;

Summer’s robes are all thrown by,

For the clothing of the sky;

Snows on snows in heaps combine,

Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,

And at distance rising proud,

Each appears a fleecy cloud.

Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;

Exit bid to every woe:

Take me in, shut out the blast,

Make the doors and windows fast;

Place me in some corner, where,

Lolling in an elbow chair,

Happy, blest to my desire,

I may find a rouzing fire;

While in chimney-corner nigh,

Coal or wood, a fresh supply,

Ready stands for laying on,

Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.

Now and then, as taste decreed

In a book a page I’d read;

And, inquiry to amuse,

Peep at something in the news;

See who’s married, and who’s dead,

And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:

While on hob, or table nigh,

Just to drink before I’m dry,

A pitcher at my side should stand,

With the barrel nigh at hand,

Always ready as I will’d,

When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;

And, to be possess’d of all,

A corner cupboard in the wall,

With store of victuals lin’d complete,

That when hungry I might eat.

Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,

For the first time take a nap;

Falling back in easy lair,

Sweetly slumbering in my chair;

With no reflective thoughts to wake

Pains that cause my heart to ache,

Of contracted debts, long made,

In no prospect to be paid;

And, to Want, sad news severe,

Of provisions getting dear:

While the Winter, shocking sight,

Constant freezes day and night,

Deep and deeper falls the snow,

Labour’s slack, and wages low.

These, and more, the poor can tell,

Known, alas, by them too well,

Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,

Never more should trouble me.

Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,

Soft and smooth as flows the tide,

Where no stones or choaking grass

Force a curve ere it can pass:

And as happy, and as blest,

As beasts drop them down to rest,

When in pastures, at their will,

They have roam’d and eat their fill;

Soft as nights in summer creep,

So should I then fall asleep;

While sweet visions of delight,

So enchanting to the sight,

Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,

Would sink me into extacies.

Nor would...